The Other Brooks Boy (Texas Wildfire Series) (18 page)

Cara holed up in
her bedroom and decided she didn't really care what happened beyond the door
that separated her from the rest of the world. It was an ugly place out there,
and she didn't have the strength, or grace, or desire to deal with any of it.
Her children were busy, going here and there like teenagers do on the weekends,
and were perfectly able to fend for themselves with a refrigerator full of food
and a microwave. They seemed to have sensed this lying in, tiptoeing around the
house and speaking to her through the closed door, and only when absolutely necessary
as if she had some horrid communicable disease they were afraid to catch. That
was more than fine with her.

She couldn't
read, her eyes so wrecked from crying most of the night, and television sucked on
the weekend unless you were a sports nut. So she curled up in her rattiest
sweats, favorite socks and holey T-shirt and hurt. For the first part of the
day on Saturday, she kept her phone within easy reach, knowing for certain he
was going to text or call and be sorry and placating, and they would make up.
But by Saturday evening, she'd begun to doubt, really doubt that this thing
could make it.

The deafening
silence from her phone made her ears ring. And every time she looked at the
screen to make sure she hadn't missed something, a vicious hurting took her by
the heart and wrung another pint of blood out of it.

Sunday was a
repeat of Saturday with an added bonus of crippling guilt when Maddie ventured
in and laid down on Cara's bed for a few minutes. She said absolutely nothing,
but crawled up under the covers with her mother and took her in her arms and
held her. It was painful and slightly embarrassing and dear. So dear.

Finally, after
long minutes of silence, Maddie pulled away and got out of the bed. She
smoothed the covers back up over the empty other side of the bed and looked
down at Cara with a heavy dose of pity in her eyes. "I love you,
Mom," she said.

Cara swallowed
hard and simply had to own the pity. "I know. I love you, too,
Maddie."

Monday brought a
little relief, but only because it forced her out of bed and back into life.
Kids had to be roused and prodded out the door to school. Work waited for her,
and there was work to do, so she made herself shower and dress for the day.

Etta was out of
the studio for a few days helping her mom after a minor surgery, so Cara didn't
have to put on a big show until late in the day when drop offs started for
classes. She made it through woodenly, by pure rote and hundreds of hours of
practice, knowing she could have done the same in her sleep. But it was about
all she could manage.

She pondered
calling him, but had no idea what she'd say to him. On some pinched off, purely
cerebral level, she could understand how Greg must be feeling. Pushed out,
forgotten, not chosen. But in her maimed, bruised, painful heart, she felt he
should have been able to give her some time, some space to work this out with
Ryan. How did he think she could just shove this down her son's throat? This
boy who still missed his dad everyday and took every less-than-sterling
utterance of him as a pure insult to the man's memory. How was she supposed to
do that? He'd given her no time. No options. Surely he loved her enough ... and
Ryan, too, to offer that.

And still he
didn't call.

The week got
past her, and then another. The pain did not. It took up residence, settled in
for a long winter's nap, but woke with a start should she try to forget about
it by doing something productive, or distracting, or even mildly entertaining.
Oh, no. There would be none of that.

She realized at
some point that she actually hurt worse than she had when Jason had died. She'd
been shocked to the marrow by his death. It hadn't been in the life script
they'd written together that he would die so young. But if she were really
honest with herself, she knew that there had almost been relief in the ending
of her married life. She'd danced the good wife dance he'd demanded of her for
so long, so faithfully that she'd forgotten to see if any of it was real
anymore. And so much of it wasn't, she discovered when he died. His affair was
simply confirmation of all of that. It galled to think of him up there having
another love, having fun and having sex and having a freakin' life, damn it,
while she was down here keeping his real life all together with taking care of
home and kids and bills and laundry. Drudgery, and with no days off. No sex, no
fun, no nothing, even when he came home. He only brought his used up carcass
home and was usually too tired and "overworked" to do anything or go
anywhere, and he didn't care enough to even offer excuses. He was just here.

So, yeah ... it
was almost a relief when that all ended.

This ending felt
more like a real death than that had. And it didn't feel like it was getting
any easier either.

Barbara called
and asked what their plans were for Thanksgiving. It was immediately clear to
Cara that she knew about the break up, but she didn't come right out and say
it.

"It'll be
just you and me and the kids, I guess. Greg's going to be in California next
week for a job interview," Barbara said, dropping it on her nonchalantly.

"Really,"
Cara said, unable to hide her surprise. "Who is he interviewing
with?"

"You know
... I don't think he ever came right out and said which university it was. I only
know it's in California, and it's hush-hush until something is decided. You
know how secretive they are about these positions. It's sometimes worse than
the big coaching positions," Barbara said, but all Cara heard was that it
was in California.

Was he really
thinking of leaving her and starting a new job in California? Was it that over?
That utterly lost and hopeless and ... done?

She sleep-walked
through the rest of the conversation, through the remainder of the day, and
most of the week. It was as if her hope had dried up like the mess of autumn
leaves on her front lawn that needed raking. She tried so hard not to think
about him, but everything reminded her of him. She had a flat on her car and
had to call a roadside service guy to come change it when she couldn't budge
the lug nuts, and all she could think of was what his arms might have looked
like straining against that tire tool, how his shirt would have stretched
across the muscles of his back, and then she felt foolish for thinking it.
Every motorcycle rumbling past made her look to see if it was him. But it never
was. Every jock commercial on TV, every sweet song on the radio, every sexy
song on the radio, every time she climbed into her bed alone made her think of
him and how much she missed him.

But he still
didn't call.

He had simply
gotten done. Done and done.

***

Thanksgiving
wasn't exactly his favorite holiday of the year, but Greg usually enjoyed it.
Great food, cozy weather, family together, his mom's pecan pie, tons of college
football ... what was not to like? So eating a turkey sandwich in a lonely
hotel room in sunny California with a crappy TV to boot, made for just about as
sorry a holiday as he'd ever spent. Even recognizing that things would have
been tense, at best, this Thanksgiving didn't make it any easier to be alone.

His interview
was early tomorrow morning. He wanted to tell them that it was really sorry of
them to mess up his Thanksgiving, making him come for the interview on the
Friday after, but he hadn't. They'd sought him out of their own accord, and
travel arrangement had been difficult, he figured right here at the holiday.
There didn't seem much to do differently. He hadn't been looking for a new job,
but when they'd contacted him with the opportunity, he'd had to stop and
consider. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe it was Divine Intervention. Maybe it
was his hand up out of the very black place he'd been in for the past few
weeks.

God help him, he
hoped so.

He'd buried his
head and worked like a
fiend
, trying to not think
about Cara. He had to work hard to not worry about her, not miss the kids. He
even missed Ryan, having grown so close to him over the past two years, and he
worried how this might affect him in the long run. He worried how his off-season
training was going without Greg by his side, coaching him through the
unglamorous stuff that required more self-discipline than most
fifteen-year-olds possessed.

It didn't seem
to have affected Cara at all. She'd dusted her hands of him and moved on when
she'd felt he wanted her to choose between him and Ryan. And that was nuts. He
hadn't wanted anything but to handle Ryan in an effective way. Something
conducive to teaching and molding him into the kind of man he needed to be
instead of the bratty, coddled whelp he was proving to be right now. But Cara
hadn't seen it like that.

God, he missed
her with something like sickness. He wanted to hold her and sink himself in her
warmth, to share her days ... the good and the bad. He wanted her. All that
there was about Cara Brooks. He wanted it all.

He dropped the
remains of his dinner on the room service plate and pushed it away, suddenly
disgusted and feeling sorry for himself. He looked at the clock and decided he
should call his mother and wish her a happy Thanksgiving. Surely they were
finished with lunch and Cara and the kids gone home by now. He dialed her
number and listened to it ring several times, surprisingly, and he was
preparing to leave a message when she finally answered.

"Hello?"

It wasn't Mom,
but Cara's voice that greeted him. Greg felt like he'd been punched in the gut
when he heard her voice, so familiar, so normal, so close sounding. He pulled
back to look at his phone, thinking he'd dialed her number by accident, but he
hadn't.

"Hello?"
she answered again.

Shit
.

"Uh, yeah
... um, hello ... Cara," he said, sounding like a fumbling idiot.

Dead silence on
the other end.

"Hello?"
he said now.

"Yes, I'm
here, Greg. Just answering Barbara's phone. She's up to her elbows in left-over
turkey," Cara said, sounding as awkward and contrived as he felt.

"Oh ...
okay. I thought I'd wish her a happy holiday ... figured you guys would be all
done and gone by now," he said, then cringed, wishing it hadn't sounded so
much like he was avoiding her. Which, of course, he was.

"We decided
to change things up a little this year ... do dinner instead of lunch like we
usually do. It was different," she said, and he knew she was struggling
with the call as much as he.

"Well,
sure," he said, then he didn't know what else to say.

"Things are
going well for you in California?" she asked after an uncomfortable
silence.

"My
interview is tomorrow morning." He guessed his mom had filled her in on
the details.

Another silence
stretched out like a taut rubber band, and he wished the damn thing would just
break.

"Listen--"
he said.

"I
hope--" she said at the exact same time, and they both stopped cold.

"Sorry. Go
ahead," he said.

"I just
wanted to say 'good luck' on your interview. I hope it turns out like you want
it to," she said, and he could swear there were tears in her eyes. He knew
every nuance her voice possessed, and he'd swear there were tears welled up in
those big brown eyes he loved so much. It slayed him to hear it.

"Oh, yeah
... well, I don't even know how I want it to go, you know?" he said,
planting his forehead in his palm. He sighed at the silence that followed. She
didn't have any preference, it seemed.

She damn sure
didn't say,
don't do it. Don't take that job even if they offer it
. It's
what he so wanted to hear her say ... what he'd give anything to hear, but he
didn't. He didn't hear anything at all, but the background sounds of
Thanksgiving at his mother's house, the clinking of dishes being washed in the
sink, the drone of football announcers on TV, and muffled voices. Normal,
happy, family sounds.

"Well,
okay. Tell Mom I called ... and to save me some pecan pie, okay?"

"Sure will.
Bye, Greg," she said.

"Bye,"
he said, and felt more disconnected than he'd ever felt in his entire life.

***

Cara was thankful
her kids were engrossed in the football game and Barbara elbow deep in turkey
so that she could manage to get herself back to rights before she had to face
any of them. Barbara's ancient home phone didn't even have caller ID on it, so
it had been an unholy surprise to answer it and hear his voice on the line. She
hung up the phone and willed her heart to slow down. It had taken up a
drumming, near-painful tattoo in her chest when she realized who it was, and
hadn't slowed back to normal yet.

She slipped into
Barbara's powder room and ran some cold water over her hands, pressed them to
her hot cheeks, and tried so hard not to cry. She'd cried enough tears in the
past month to fill her pool and she was so tired of it.